Caution: Road Rage Ahead

July 30, 2010

in After The Honeymoon, OldSchool, Taking the Scenic Route

In some of my geekier moments, I dream of the day when a Transporter device such as the one they use so regularly in Star Trek will actually come to be.  A device which would eliminate the need to stuff your entire wardrobe, enough provisions to last a month, and your future spouse into a vehicle designed to comfortably fit two adults and one adult woman’s purse.

Of course, the lines for such a Transporter would probably still be outrageous come Thanksgiving….

Ahh, Thanksgiving road trips.  Truly the triathalon of road trips.  It tests not only your ability to sit in traffic long past the point when your butt has gone completely numb, but also your ability to multi-task as you simultaneously cut off the vehicle behind you, box in the vehicle trying to cut you off next to you, and flip off the vehicle in front of you which must single-handedly be responsible for the current traffic jam in which you are mired, not to mention the durability of your radio’s seek button as you try to find exactly the right song to blast over the one coming from the car three lanes over.

And that?  Is just if you are traveling alone.  Fortunately for us, Thanksgiving is also the perfect holiday to bring home the significant other for the first time.  Not quite as pressurized as Christmas so if he bombs, at least you haven’t ruined Christmas.  Yet big enough that he can meet all the family at once in one huge crush and then not have to see them again until next year – when he’ll, naturally, be expected to remember all of their names and how they are related to you.

That is, if he survives the road trip TO Thanksgiving, of course.

My first big road trip with the Big Man was, naturally, a Thanksgiving road trip.  Sure, we’d done small road trips up until that point.  The two hours between home and school, or later the two hours between our separate schools.

(Come to think of it, our second date was actually a Thanksgiving road trip.   It was the Big Man, myself, and his random friend, Ben, crammed into the cab of his 1967 Chevy Pick Up, with our bags strapped down in the back, trying to find enough to talk about to fill the two hours between school and home.  Balancing getting to know each other without making Ben feel like more of a third wheel than we absolutely had to.  Fortunately, Ben was born to be a wingman.  So that road trip?  Went well enough that, 4 years later, we were finally embarking on THE Road Trip.)

So.  THE Road Trip.  The THANKSGIVING Road Trip.  The plan was to drive from Virginia up to Pennsylvania the day before Thanksgiving, so we could then crash at my Aunt’s before heading across the border with her to Jersey and the Italian possibly-mafia side of the family for the holiday.

Except the Big Man had to work that day.  His boss had told him he’d be out of there by noon.  Which he was.  If by noon you mean 4PM.

No sweat.  Pennsylvania wasn’t too far away.  And with the Big Man’s ability to weave, dodge, and imitate a maniac off his meds when needed, we’d be through that traffic in No time.  Maybe there would be a little bit of sitting in traffic.  But we’d planned our route so that it would be minimal.

In theory.

Of course, as my father had found out a few years before, there are no minimal routes the day before Thanksgiving.  Which meant we were stuck in traffic.  For HOURS.  Literally.  In Park.  FOR HOURS.

And I do fine with traffic.  Its the kind of situation where, after the first 20 minutes or so, I realize that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  And so I roll down the window, crank the radio, and rest my foot on the sideview mirror to chill.

The Big Man?  Not so much.  His approach to traffic is less zen and more… rage.  Pure, unadulterated rage.  Like a cornered hyena, he started spitting his frustration out on everyone within a five foot radius.

So me.

Yeah.  About that.  If I wanted to tame a spitting hyena?  I’d have gone to work at the zoo.

And while sure, at that point we were officially engaged to be wed.  I?  Was seriously considering alternate plans.  Mainly those that involved me getting out of that freakin’ car and Walking.  To Pennsylvania.  Or home.  Which, sadly, wasn’t that far away at that point in time.

Fortunately for the Big Man, the car radio worked like a charm.  And once I had his rage directed at pounding the seek button into submission, we agreed to Just. Not. Talk.

At least not until the speedometer read at least 60mph.

{ 1 comment }

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